


Shelter Before The Storm / The Storm

by Neyiea



Series: misfit(toy)s [8]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Bruce Wayne Needs a Hug, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-06 07:02:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19057651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neyiea/pseuds/Neyiea
Summary: All good things must come to an end, and change is on the horizon.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still tagging this as gen because Jeremiah-you're-like-the-brother-I-never-had-Valeska has _no idea_ what's going on, but something is starting to brew over on his end.

He’s in the midst of planning the nuances of the purge room for his new bunker, which he classifies as a pessimistic but inevitable need. Jerome’s followers were highly unlikely to be the brightest or most loyal bunch. Even when Jeremiah shows them, shows everyone, that he is capable of everything that his mad brother was not, there’s still a good chance they might revolt.

They were just as crazy as his brother, after all. More so, even, since they believed that following Jerome was a good idea. He couldn’t expect much sense from that lot, he’d only find himself disappointed.

So many of his projects are starting to come together; the bare bones of his new bunker have been constructed, he’s carefully planned out which buildings will have to fall and which load-bearing walls to take out first so that they’ll land flawlessly, he’s been faithfully practicing his impressions of Jerome while perfecting his script, he’s even drafted up new, personal schematics to put two identical kill-switch breakers on each of his generators—one the breaker, one a supercharge failsafe—just in case someone gets a little too close.

He’s ensured that dear, trusting Bruce won’t tell anyone about their private project. His known secretive nature did half the work for him; all he’d done was act a little nervous, avoid some of the eye contact that he was beginning to love initiating, and ask Bruce to keep their project under wraps. 

Bruce had promised on no uncertain terms that no one who wasn’t absolutely necessary to the project would know until the time was right.

And Jeremiah believed him. 

Speaking of Bruce, he’s been pouring over everything he can learn about his friend, perfecting the scenario that will act as Bruce’s turning point. Bruce, when he’s no longer at war with his true nature, is going to be breathtaking.

He’d found a passage in Jerome’s diary; musings about a night at a carnival where Jerome had seen something dark inside of Bruce, and his desires for Bruce to let it out and embrace it. Jeremiah’s going to see it too and, unlike Jerome, he’s going to succeed in unleashing it.

He will be the one to open Bruce’s eyes to all that he can be. He will be the one to unlock Bruce’s incredible potential. 

He had scoured through Jerome’s diary for any other mentions about time spent with Bruce that may not have been crazy enough to become public knowledge after Bruce had alluded to such meetings, but he had found nothing; only the usual ridiculously insane plans of death, mutilation, and haphazard destruction. He could likely ask Bruce about it, but even the thought of starting a conversation about Jerome leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

Jerome is dead, and he shouldn’t matter anymore to anyone. But Jerome was also a crucial link in the chain that bound Jeremiah and Bruce together. It rankles him, the thought that without Jerome he and Bruce likely never would have become friends. They might never have even met.

The idea that they could have carried on as strangers for the rest of their lives seems almost too terrible to consider. Jeremiah, as much as he loathes to admit it to even himself, finds that he must be grateful to Jerome for the one scheme he’d ever concocted that did anyone any good. He’d been far too unhinged for any of his other ridiculous plots to go off without a hitch, let alone benefit anyone. If he had been just the least bit sane…

But he hadn’t been.

And Jeremiah was perfectly sane, with a perfectly clear vision. 

Just as Jeremiah will be the one to successfully guide Bruce towards something momentous, he’ll carry out Jerome’s other failed, ridiculous plots too. He’ll show everyone how different they are. How different they had always been.

He’s never been so busy in his life and he must say, he’s never been so fond of his work.

His security system alerts him to someone on his property and he looks up from his drafting and spots a familiar car on one of his screens. His eyebrows draw upwards in happy surprise, a smile tugging at his mouth.

He hadn’t been expecting Bruce today. He hastily looks at his phone, which he’d had on do not disturb mode in order to fully concentrate on his tasks. He has five missed calls, all from Bruce.

He resolves to never leave his phone unattended for so long again. Whatever’s going on must be important, for Bruce to come to him out of the blue without the advance notice that he’s so fond of giving. Thankfully he’s taken to his morning routine of makeup and setting spray, contacts and glasses, so he won’t have to waste any time in preparing himself before letting Bruce inside. He just needs to put away some of the plans for his most ambitious projects, a task that is quickly dealt with.

He watches with a smile as Bruce walks up to his front door and presses the intercom button.

“Jeremiah?” Bruce’s voice is wrong. Brittle. Hurt. Fury abruptly blooms in the center of Jeremiah’s chest. “Could I please come in? I need—” He closes his eyes and sighs. “I could really use a friend right now.”

Jeremiah slams his hand against the button for his front door with more force than necessary, though he quickly pulls himself together. He takes long, quick strides out of his office, anxious to verify that Bruce is alright, longing to make sure that Bruce feels safe here, in Jeremiah’s domain.

He finds him sitting at the bottom of the front steps, his head in his hands, a bandage wrapped around one palm.

“Bruce,” he calls the moment he comes into view and Bruce lifts tired, anguished eyes to look up at him. Jeremiah’s fingers itch for a gun, for a blade, for anything that will make this situation better. “Are you alright?”

“No. Not really.” 

The blunt answer takes him aback. Bruce usually isn’t one to be open about having trouble. He likes to shoulder burdens himself, take on more than he should, protect those who don’t deserve it. While some part of Jeremiah rejoices at this openness, another sign that he and Bruce are becoming closer, a different, much larger part is seething at the knowledge that someone has rattled Bruce like this.

No one should have this much influence over Bruce’s life, except for maybe himself, but he would never hurt Bruce for the sake of being cruel. Only for the sake of his betterment. Something that Bruce would eventually thank him for, once he knew what Jeremiah knows. 

“Here, Bruce.” He holds out a hand and Bruce takes it without hesitation, letting Jeremiah help pull him back up to his feet. “Tell me what’s—” wrong. He doesn’t finish, can’t finish, because Bruce has wrapped his arms around his waist, tucking his face against Jeremiah’s shoulder. It takes Jeremiah several seconds too long to return the hug, with his mind feeling as though it is short-circuiting from the unexpected contact, but Bruce doesn’t seem to mind the delay.

It's been more than a decade since anyone has embraced him like this. He hadn’t even realized that he’d missed such a thing, until now. 

“I can’t—I can’t really talk about it, but something’s happened. Something awful.” Bruce’s shoulders go tense and he steps away, his hands falling back to his sides. Jeremiah fights the urge to bring him closer, to assure him that he’s safe. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but I really needed to see a friendly face.”

“You’re welcome here any time, Bruce. I’m sorry that I missed your calls. It won’t happen again.” He lays a hand on Bruce’s back and leads him further inside, Bruce following beside him willingly. They slip into his office and Jeremiah settles Bruce in his chair before perching up on the desk beside him. 

“Is there anything that I can do for you?”

“Sit with me for a while? I’m sorry, you must have so much to do—”

“I’m never too busy for you, Bruce. You’re my friend.” It feels so good to let the truth slip from his lips. “I’m going to look out for you from now on.”

He’s going to be the best friend that Bruce has ever had. 

The only friend he’ll ever need.

Bruce looks up at him, and though the smile he gifts Jeremiah with is a small, fragile thing, it’s just as important as everything else that Bruce has offered to him freely.

“I’m really glad that we became friends, Jeremiah.” The admission makes something inside of Jeremiah sing. The two of them, once Bruce has become the person he needs to be, are going to be a force to be reckoned with. But he can still take his time to admire the current, soft Bruce. The Bruce who was too good and too friendly, who gave so much of himself away without expecting anything back. The Bruce who was unaware of his own importance in the grand scheme of things. One day soon Jeremiah is going to open his eyes to all that he’s been blind to. “When we first met I was worried that the situation we were in would make you hesitant to associate with me any further.”

Jeremiah blanches at the notion.

The very idea of knowing Bruce but not having this camaraderie with him is almost blasphemous. 

“I assure you, a thought like that has never crossed my mind.” He briefly wonders if he should pour them both a drink, but from what he knows of Bruce since his partying days were put to an end he’s not sure the gesture would be welcome. He still has so much to learn. “And it never will.”

“I know.” Bruce’s smile widens a fraction, but something in his eyes goes dull. “I know that I can count on you.”

Jeremiah takes in Bruce’s appearance, and his word choice, and puts two and two together. Someone has broken his trust. Someone has shown that they can’t be counted on. Whoever it is, they’ve thrown Bruce even further into Jeremiah’s orbit. Perhaps he’ll thank them before he kills them.

“You can,” Jeremiah vows. I only want what’s best for you, he doesn’t add out loud. “Would you like to see what I’ve put together for the generators so far? Most of my supplies are in your lab, but I like to keep some things around home to tinker with.”

Bruce’s eyes spark again, vivid and full of curiosity. His reaction to Jeremiah’s work continues to be the greatest wordless compliment that Jeremiah has ever received.

“I’d love that, thank you.”

Jeremiah shifts on the desk, drawing one of his blueprints closer to give Bruce an underlying knowledge of a few base components before they move on to the 3D renderings and models—tactile pieces that will fit perfectly in Bruce’s hands; instruments made for both destruction and creation. 

He shows Bruce what he’s worked out so far, internal mechanisms that make cables and wires obsolete, while Bruce asks informed questions. He’s been reading up on electrical engines, he admits, because he wants to help in any way he can, wants to make himself useful. He wants so badly to change Gotham for the better, and Jeremiah will make that a reality. 

He will clear out the festering rot, create a blank canvas, and build a utopia that the world will never see coming.

Weeks later, when they test the generator for the first and last time, Bruce is bathed in blue light as he approaches Jeremiah, his eyes lit up with something fascinating.

Jeremiah’s heart, quite strangely, beats a little faster in his chest.

It must be from the anticipation of what’s to come. 

“It’s virtually without costs,” Jeremiah finishes. This time, when Bruce hugs him, he’s ready for it.

“You never cease to amaze me, Jeremiah,” he says as he pulls away after what feels like too-short of a time. “You’re going to do great things.”

“ _We’re_ going to do great things,” Jeremiah corrects gently. Even now, Bruce doesn’t fully realize how instrumental he is to everything. 

That will change soon.

Bruce turns to look at the generator once more. “And with the prototypes at Wayne Labs we could power all of Gotham?”

Ah, there was his cue. He lets something paranoid slip into his tone. 

“You kept this project a secret, yes?”

“No one outside of Wayne Industries knows it exists.” 

He steps closer, and his voice drops to a whisper. “It’s the ones who are closest to you that you have to keep your eye on.” He meets Bruce’s gaze, sees the genuine concern beginning to grow there, and knows that Bruce is going to play his part beautifully. He has to stifle a delighted laugh. “I know better than anyone.”

Today is going to be a marvelous day. His first day free to be his true self. The day Bruce will become who Jeremiah knows he can be.

He just has one more act to get through, and after that…

The old, ugly Gotham will be in ruin, and the new one will rise gloriously from the ashes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Bruce, I'm sorry.

Bruce had woken up with the smell of earth and decay thick in his nostrils. He’d had to push his hands against the body beneath him to move into a standing position, and he’d crawled out of the open grave that he’d been left in, and he’d seen a pillar of smoke on the horizon. 

‘I could not have done any of this without your help.’

He’d supported himself against Jerome’s headstone as he was sick to his stomach.

‘I have a legacy to leave,’ had echoed in his head. Bruce couldn’t bear to look down at the body so carelessly laid in the ground, limp and lifeless and grey. He could barely stand up, he had been shaking so much, but he somehow managed to get his feet underneath him.

He hadn’t thought that it was possible for the situation to get any worse.

He hadn’t thought that Jeremiah would turn even more of the people who he cared for into targets.

He’d been trying, and failing, not to cry, holding onto Selina’s hand too-tight as she held him back just as desperately. She’d been stable, the bleeding finally under control, and Alfred’s reassuring presence at his back was half-forgotten in the wake of the newest of a series of tragedies that had shifted the entire world underneath Bruce’s feet, leaving him disoriented and unable to tell up from down. Then he’d been forced away from the side of his oldest friend, even though he had promised that he wouldn’t leave her. He’d been torn from her as if her suffering meant nothing, all because of him.

The man who Bruce had thought could help him change Gotham for the better.

The man who Bruce had considered one of his closest friends. One of two.

The hurt and betrayal that had burned like fire in his veins had only increased during their monitored conversation. What Jeremiah was doing was far beyond rubbing salt into an open wound; he was tearing Bruce’s entire world down with a subtle smile playing on his lips as if he was aware of a secret that Bruce had yet to figure out. He spoke about their similarities, about being at war with their true natures, about how what he had done was to help him.

It made him feel angry. 

It made him feel sick. 

‘I think you could be so strong. I see it. He sees it too.’

Bruce had been overcome with a new sense of dread as the conversation continued. 

‘You already know his name. You’re his heir,’ Jeremiah had told him, and Bruce had felt his blood run cold.

And then the lights had flickered out.

And then he’d been taken. 

Bruce wonders if Jerome wrote about the night at his gruesome carnival in his diary and if Jeremiah had read it and planned to give Bruce a night that was even more unforgettably awful, because when the hood is removed from his head he’s faced with something just as terrible as Jerome’s twisted spectacle had been. 

Seeing Ra’s and Jeremiah standing there, obviously familiar with each other, is almost enough for him to be physically ill again. When Ra’s had been revived and Selina had given the knife to her other friends and left Bruce and Alfred to go off with Barbara and Tabitha he remembers just how hurt he’d been by it, how desperate for comfort. He remembers going to Jeremiah and feeling better, because even if Ra’s had returned at least Bruce had a new pillar of support in his life, someone who he could trust to have his back in times of trouble. Someone who was willing and able to do just as much good for Gotham as Bruce was. Someone who he could rely on. 

Or so he’d thought.

Had all of Jeremiah’s acts of friendship been a lie? Had he been leading Bruce towards this since the very beginning?

“Gotham falls, we rise.” Jeremiah says as he lays a hand on Bruce’s shoulder. The contact, once something that he would have welcomed openly, makes him go tense. “Together,” Jeremiah finishes, his soft voice laden with a dreadful meaning. 

He’s bound and powerless, but thankfully he’s not alone in his desire to save Gotham from the schemes of people who dare to claim that they think of Bruce as something like family; heir and brother. When backup arrives Jeremiah guides Bruce further from the conflict, as if in an attempt to protect him even though he is the one who Bruce needs the most protection from. When the guns start going off he steps in front of Bruce with his own gun raised, as if to shield him, and Bruce doesn’t let himself think too hard about the juxtaposition of the situation as he uses it to his advantage to free himself from Jeremiah’s hold.

In the end he isn’t able to stop anything. He only brings about the resolution that Ra’s had forced him into for a second time though this time, blessedly, he is not alone through it. The hands clasped around his own on the hilt of the knife bring a small amount of relief that Barbara would likely think that he was weak for feeling. It had to be done, but he hadn’t done it by himself, and maybe that will help stem the nightmares that are sure to spring up from the moment where Ra’s crumbles before them both. 

When the ashes settle he finally turns to look behind him, and Jeremiah is gone.

‘I have a legacy to leave,’ echoes in his mind again. ‘I’ll be watching from the other side.’

Bruce buries his face in his hands and screams.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jeroooooooome, how I missed writing you in this AU.

It turns out that a broken wine bottle is just as effective at threatening people as a knife. Not that Jerome is surprised—he’s had a shard of mirror seconds away from being his end—he’d taken that same shard of mirror with the intent to cause an end—but he expected a little less crying from someone who was meant to watch over him.

You’d think that, by now, people would realize what they were getting into if they were within even a kilometer radius of him, let alone inside the same house. 

“Stop whining you big baby,” he digs the sharp edges into their abdomen and they squeal in an irritating way. “I have a couple questions about what I missed out on during my compulsory nap. Give me some answers and I might just let you go.”

Or at least give him the illusion of freedom before ripping it away. 

He’d been forced into sleep. He thinks it would be artfully symbolic if he forced one of the people responsible for keeping him under into a much more permanent rest. He has a reputation that he needs to uphold.

Plus, it would give him something to do. How long had it been since anyone died by his hand? Too long, that’s for certain. 

The man before him squirms and nods. “Anything,” he promises, short of breath after his very loud conversation about bridges over the phone. “Anything you want to know, ask away.”

Jerome asks, and he listens, and he laughs, laughs, laughs.

He actually has to wipe a tear of mirth from his eye. The man in front of him looks about ready to keel over just from this, proving himself as a total wimp and a disappointment who’s not even worthy of being thought of as a bump in the road, let alone an adversary. His exposure to those who can look him in the eye without flinching have spoiled him, perhaps. Fear is a natural reaction for the vast majority of Gotham’s citizens in his presence, of course, but this level of blubbering is truly pathetic. 

Jerome is going to enjoy killing him, if only because he’ll know he’ll never have to hear his wretched sobs again.

“One last question before I set you loose.”

A predator letting the prey think it’s free, before the cold talons of reality sink in and rip it apart.

Jerome twists the bottle, and he hears a sharp snap as a piece of glass breaks off and embeds itself into flesh. Like a shark he can smell the blood in the air, and it makes him hungry for more. 

“I bet there’s a cache of weapons stowed away in here somewhere. Even if you didn’t expect me to wake up so soon you were tasked with defending my body, weren’t you? Come on, don’t be shy.” He grins. “What were you and your partner planning on doing if anyone found out where I was?”

He could search for them himself, but this will make it all so much quicker.

And it will give a little bit more false hope before the inevitable end is met. Because Jerome has been using a broken wine bottle to get answers and not the gun that had been left abandoned, probably by the man who’d been screaming about the Clock Tower, so close to his bedside that he almost wonders if the guy who’d left had been one of his Maniax, once. 

Or maybe he was just an idiot without the additional lunacy that made his followers so amusing.

“Upstairs, first door on the right, under the bed. There’s a suitcase. And in the room beside it, in the closet, there’s a gym bag. Everything we thought we’d need is there.”

“Great.” Jerome throws what’s left of the wine bottle over his shoulder and it smashes into a hundred pieces against the kitchen tile. “Was that really so difficult?”

The man scrambles away without answering and that, too, is another disappointment. Who did he have to threaten to get some decent conversation? 

A name floats to the forefront of his mind, not entirely unexpected.

Jerome snorts at his own train of thought.

He hears the front door fling open and he follows at a more sedate pace. He feels a little lightheaded, and a few minor twinges now that there’s no needle in his arm delivering drugs right into his system, but most of all he feels alive.

He stands on the porch of the house he’d been kept in, aims at the retreating figure in the dark, and shoots. He misses. He tries again, and the second shot grazes a leg. He chuckles and refines his aim, and then—

They’re down for good.

And he’s free to sink into the dark underbelly of Gotham, concealed in the shadows for now so that he can take in all that has happened while he’d been asleep, and all that is bound to happen now that everyone left inside the city is well and truly stuck with absolutely no way out. 

As he makes his way down the unnaturally quiet street—a heavy gym bag slung over one shoulder and a suitcase on wheels trailing behind him—a light in the sky, piercing against the otherwise all-consuming darkness, catches his attention. 

It reminds him of Bruce Wayne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hhhhh, guess it's time for me to ~~rewrite the rest of the series~~ attempt to get my act together so that I can write another long multi-chaptered work, otherwise this fic series is just going to be waaaay too many one shots.
> 
> See ya'll on the flip side. I gotta mentally prepare myself for this (and flesh out the vague outline that I have, gosh).


End file.
